I think we can all agree that 93% of Sydney male cyclists are deluded wankers.
They whine like 12 year olds about people opening car doors on them or traffic cutting them off. Sook sook. (Mind you that is terrible.) They walk around in spandex thinking their shrivelled testicles look enormous and attractive.
And almost every weekday morning as we mortals walk to work they don’t stop at zebra crossings to let the zebras cross. They skim up the inside of all those bastard car drivers who have reluctantly slowed and eyeball pedestrians as they barrel through. I can read their beady eyes and they say ‘we’re in this together against the cars, aren’t we’. Solidarity.
Fuck off! Stop! The rules apply to you too.
As you wait on plastic chairs in casualty wards bleeding from your nose, knees and elbows, having killed another zebra, think about that. Stop blaming the rest of the world.
Eleanor agrees with me.
The city is a shared space. That’s part of its crowded charm and angsty routines.
Today I wanted to kill three people, for example, but I didn’t. I wasn’t wearing spandex. My enormous and attractive testicles weren’t being squeezed.
These three people were installing roof insulation in housing commission flats in the vale of Annandale below our house on Struggle Street. They started at seven-thirty am, according to Wallington, but failed to wake me before nine. Drills and clatter are no weapons against my capacity to sleep.
But then they turned on – and way up – a radio tuned to Nova FM. This relentless shit FM played all day until five. Most of it was advertising. There was some kind of countdown. There was some kind of $100,000 giveaway (but not quite yet, just blat blat blat). There was some kind of interview with someone awesome in LA. There was endless crap music (plus one Lorde and one eminem song.) We could hear every word in every room on Struggle Street. All day.
One of the three blokes I wanted to kill was called Basil, apparently. Imagine killing someone called Basil.
‘Basil bring me up a fuckin’ water.’
I can’t fuckin’ hear you fuckin Nova fuckin FM is too loud. By this time they had moved along the roof spine about four flats but instead of moving the radio or stopping at the zebra crossing they just turned up Nova fucking FM back wherever the ladder let them up into the morning.
By five pm I understood why dickhead builders go out on Saturday night and one-punch innocent victims. They have been listening to deadening, loud, repetitive shit FM all day. They’ve been tortured by Abu Nova FM. Their brains are gone and they are angry and insensible.
No excuse. Turn the radio off Basil. Shaun.
We’re under the flight path and late in the afternoon today when the planes started again I found that I would rather listen to planes taking off and landing than listen to Nova FM. Zen via the flight path. Who would have thought it possible.
Speaking of which, rumours in the hysterical Murdoch press suggest that the government of our skullface PM might approve a second Sydney airport at Badgery’s Creek. If so, I will praise it for that. It won’t actually happen, of course. Labor, Liberal, huntin’ and shootin’ party, hating and punishing party, Abu Nova FM party – they are all too gutless and pissweak to tackle Macquarie Bank who are the proud gougers in charge of the worst airport in the world.
So it goes.
But I am enjoying the entirely ludicrous foaming of The Old American about our wicked ABC. I haven’t read comics for ages and I’m really enjoying this one. Our heroic navy, etc. Your treacherous ABC, etc.
Insert laugh track here.